


The Ways I Loved You

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drabble Collection, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 19:19:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15825282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: A collection of drabbles/ficlets as requested on Tumblr.





	1. 'I Love You' said as a Scream

**Author's Note:**

> Unless otherwise noted, all chapters are unrelated drabbles. Additionally, unless otherwise noted, all chapters are E/R. For warnings, tags, etc., see the notes at the front of each chapter.
> 
> Chapter 1 is Modern AU, established relationship fluff.
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” Grantaire said calmly, seemingly blithely unaware of the murderous look Enjolras was giving him.

“Oh, but I really, _really_  do,” Enjolras said between clenched teeth.

Grantaire arched an eyebrow at him and swiveled around on the hard plastic seat to look behind them. “Enj, there are literal children on this ride. It doesn’t even have a _lap bar_ , just a seatbelt. I somehow think you’re overreacting, just a little.”

The rollercoaster lurched slowly forward and Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut. “There are three things I absolutely hate in this world,” he hissed. “Heights, speed and, at the moment at least, you, and this is the goddamned unholy trinity right here.”

Grantaire had the nerve to chuckle, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “It amazes me that a man like you who has stared down US senators and half the goddamn National Guard in full riot gear is scared of a little baby rollercoaster.”

Enjolras opened one eye to glare at him. “It amazes me that you seem to think that you’re going to make it out of this alive, let alone with a boyfriend.”

Shrugging, Grantaire kissed Enjolras’s cheek once more. “Well, we had a good run,” he said comfortably, as the ride slowly started its ascent. “And at least we’ll go out on a high note.” He paused. “So to speak, anyway.”

Enjolras whimpered as the ride slowed, approaching the peak, and Grantaire looked torn between amusement and exasperation before schooling his expression into something more sympathetic and reaching out to tilt Enjolras’s face towards him. “Hey,” he said softly, “you’ll be alright. I promise. And besides, the only way you can murder me is if you make it through this.”

Despite himself, Enjolras laughed lightly and opened his eyes, not looking away from Grantaire. “I…” he started.

“Yeah?” Grantaire asked, with a small smile bordering on a smirk. “You what? You hate me?”

“No, actually, I—” Without warning, the ride pitched forward over the peak of the coaster, and Enjolras’s words turned into a high-pitched scream of terror. “I LOVE YOU!”

When the ride finally came to a stop, Enjolras had lost what little color he had, and Grantaire wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “God,” he sighed, “that was totally worth it.” He leaned in and kissed Enjolras, who seemed frozen like a statue. “And for what it’s worth, babe, I love you, too, even if I don’t feel the need to scream it at the top of my lungs at an amusement park.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Enjolras informed him, and Grantaire just laughed.

“Sure you are,” he said cheerfully. “Hey, what do you say we ride it again?”

And Enjolras just groaned.


	2. 'I Love You' said as Broken Glass Litters the Floor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon-era. Angst. My _jam_.

Grantaire’s laughter was quiet, hushed even, but still the low, mocking sound carried to the front of the Musain and Enjolras turned his head to stare at him. “Is it myself you mock, or simply our plan?” he asked, somewhat archly, in too buoyant a mood from the news brought out of the different sectors of the city to be as irritated as he usually might be at Grantaire or, more accurately, the bottle clenched in his hand. **  
**

Grantaire returned his stare evenly, with just a hint of a smirk, though there was something almost like reverence in his tone when he responded, “Never would I seek to mock you, Apollo. Would that the same could be said for your plan. You could no sooner convince the people of Paris to rise than to convince a drunk to leave his cups.”

Enjolras turned to face him fully, and Combeferre caught his arm. “Enjolras, leave it,” he sighed, but Enjolras shook his arm from his grasp.

“No, I wish to play this out,” he said. “Tell me, then, Grantaire, what would it take to bring you from your cups?” There was no derision in Enjolras’s voice, just something like mild curiosity, and Grantaire’s expression tightened. “If you seek to scorn or disparage, then surely you must have some better solution in mind.”

Grantaire propped his chin on his hand, his smirk turning saccharine. “While I cannot hope to offer a better solution, dear Apollo, to bring me from my cups would require naught but a kind word from you.”

Enjolras blinked, taken aback, but before he could respond, Combeferre cleared his throat. “As Enjolras was saying,” he said, pointedly, steering the conversation back to its previous tack, though it took a long moment for Enjolras to tear his eyes away from Grantaire.

Following the meeting, Enjolras made his way to where Grantaire still sat, new bottle in hand. “May I sit?” Enjolras asked, and Grantaire merely raised his brow and gestured at the open seats next to him. “Were you sincere before?”

“Never have I lied to you,” Grantaire said, surprised. “Obfuscated, perhaps, or deflected, but—”

“Were you sincere when you said it would take nothing but a kindly word from me?” Enjolras interrupted, knowing far too well how liable Grantaire was to derail the conversation before it could begin.

Something darkened slightly in Grantaire’s expression. “It is what I said, and lest you think to call me a liar—”

Enjolras lifted his hand and Grantaire abruptly stopped. “Then let me tell you this,” Enjolras said softly. “You are witty, and kind, and more intrepid than I think you could ever realize, and whilst my tone has on occasion been sharp and my patience thin, it is an honor to have you here each night, to count you amongst not only our number, but also among my friends. And I…” He hesitated, as out of the norm for Enjolras as any of the words that had spilled thence from his lips, and Grantaire stared at him, his own lips parted in shock. “My affection for you has been perhaps too guarded a secret but if it is a kindly word you seek then I finally have cause enough to lay it plain: I love you.”

Enjolras said the words plainly, without his previous hesitation and with no air of a grand declaration. He may well have been calling the sky blue for how easily he stated it.

The bottle slipped from Grantaire’s hand and shattered against the floor, but neither man so much as flinched from the sound or the wine that pooled at their feet. “Say—” Grantaire’s voice cracked, and he shook his head slowly. “Say it once more.”

“I love you,” Enjolras repeated, and Grantaire closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, it was to join a horrible smile that stretched his lips and twisted his expression. “I asked for a kindly word, Apollo,” he said, his voice low. “But I should have known I’d have to settle for such sweet mockery.”

Enjolras blinked, taken aback by the man’s sudden shift in tone. “It is not mockery,” he started, his protest dying on his lips as Grantaire stood, swaying slightly and still smiling that terrible smile.

“I have oft declared my sole certainty to be my full glass,” Grantaire told him. “I fear I may have to add one more to the list: the cruelty of the gods.”

He made an elegant, mocking leg before sweeping from the room, leaving Enjolras staring after him, hurt mingling with confusion in his own expression.

His words had been truthful, if perhaps ill-formed, and as Grantaire returned the following day at the appointed place and time for the meeting, full bottle in hand, Enjolras had the sinking realization that he knew not what kindly word Grantaire sought.


	3. 'I Love You' said in a Way I Can't Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU, and somehow, fluffy despite the ominous-sounding title ;)

“I just don’t understand,” Combeferre said mildly, peering over his glasses as he stared with no small amount of amusement at Enjolras, whose cheeks were flushed as crimson as the hoodie he normally were. “Why can’t you say it?” **  
**

Enjolras wetted his lips and glanced across the room at Grantaire, who was laughing as Bossuet tried to sit on Joly’s lap. “It’s not that simple,” he hedged, if possible blushing even deeper when Grantaire glanced over at him.

“What’s not that simple?” Courfeyrac asked, returning from the bar with their three drinks carefully balanced in his grip. He set the three drinks down and passed Combeferre his glass of wine and Enjolras his Irish coffee before taking a sip of his martini. “Please tell me we’re not still talking about—”

“We’re not talking about anything,” Enjolras snapped, snatching his drink off the table and taking too large a sip to try to cover his apparent embarrassment.

Courfeyrac glanced at Combeferre, who rolled his eyes and shrugged, before looking back at Enjolras, clearly amused. “He still giving you a hard time over it?”

Enjolras scowled. “When is Combeferre not giving me a hard time over something?” he grumbled.

Courfeyrac snorted. “I wasn’t talking about Combeferre.”

As if on cue, Grantaire stood and made his way over to stand next to Enjolras, propping his arm on the back of Enjolras’s chairback. “I had the feeling I was being discussed,” he said with his patented roguish grin.

Combeferre sighed. “Are you continuing to torture Enjolras about it?”

Grantaire’s grin widened. “I’d ask about what, since torturing Enjolras is a specialty of mine, but I have a feeling I know what you’re talking about.” He leaned down to look at Enjolras. “Does it really bother you all that much?”

“It doesn’t _bother_ me,” Enjolras protested. “I just…I hate that I can’t say it back.”

“You _can_ say it back,” Grantaire told him, uncharacteristically gentle, though his tone was spoiled when he plopped down in Enjolras’s lap, ignoring the breath he let out in a huff,  and kissed him on the cheek and informed him, “It’s not my fault you’re so anal retentive that you _won’t_ say it without being able to say it correctly.”

Enjolras gritted his teeth. “It’s not my fault either,” he snapped. “I took French in high school, not German! And it’s apparently very common for English speakers to not be able to pronounce ‘ich’ correctly!” He jabbed Grantaire in the stomach. “And it’s doubly not my fault that you mock me every time I say it incorrectly.”

“Me, mock?” Grantaire asked innocently. “Never.”

Enjolras glared at him, but a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchanged pointed glances before taking their leave. Grantaire’s smirk softened and he kissed Enjolras’s cheek once more before telling him lightly, “Ich liebe dich.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Enjolras grumbled, though his expression softened as well and he leaned forward to capture Grantaire’s lips in a kiss before returning dryly, “Je t’aime aussi.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire sighed happily, “right back at you.”


	4. 'I Love You' Muffled from the Other Side of the Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU. Established relationship. Hijinks and shenanigans.

Grantaire knocked softly on the bathroom door in Enjolras’s apartment. “For the last time, Combeferre,” Enjolras said, his voice muffled from the door, “go away.” **  
**

“Nice try, but it’s not Combeferre,” Grantaire called back, and he heard scuffling from inside the bathroom as if Enjolras was shifting to be closer to the door.

“Grantaire?” he asked, surprised.

Grantaire smiled slightly. “In the flesh.”

“What are you doing here?”

Grantaire shrugged, settling down on the ground and resting his back against the bathroom door. “Well, when Combeferre called me in a panic because you had locked yourself in your bathroom, I figured I might as well mosey over and witness the show.”

His tone was mild, but he could practically hear the scowl in Enjolras’s voice as he retorted, “Wow, I’m so glad that you could make your way all the way over here just to witness my pain.”

“I am nothing if not a voyeur,” Grantaire told him, his tone joking, and when Enjolras didn’t respond, he sighed. “And I’m fairly certain you’re nothing if not a drama queen.”

Enjolras was silent and Grantaire sighed again, leaning back to let his head rest against the door. “You know, whatever happened, if there’s anyone you can tell about it, it’s me.”

“You say that now—”

“Enj.” Grantaire’s voice was firm, and left no room for argument. “After all the stupid shit that I have pulled over the years, I’m pretty sure that we have thoroughly established that this is a judgement-free zone.”

“Promise?”

Enjolras’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet, unsure even, and Grantaire’s brow furrowed. “Of course,” he said, with no hesitation, his tone gentle, soothing. “I love you, you know that. And I would never judge you.”

“I love you, too,” Enjolras returned, his voice muffled by the door, and he hesitated before asking, “And do you promise not to laugh?”

Grantaire scrambled to his feet, his brow furrowing even deeper. “Promise not to laugh?” he repeated, confused more than anything. “Enj—”

Before he could get his next question out, the door to the bathroom swung open and Enjolras shuffled outside, conspicuously avoiding Grantaire’s gaze. “It was an accident,” he muttered, his cheeks red. “I told the barber that I just wanted it trimmed a little on the sides, because it’s been falling into my face, and…”

He trailed off miserably and Grantaire stared at him, clearly torn between horror and amusement. “Oh dear God,” he managed. “You look like an actual, literal member of Hitler Youth.”

Enjolras scowled at him, reaching up to try to flatten the high and tight pompadour favored by the alt-right — and, apparently, his barber. “You said this was a judgement-free zone,” he snapped.

Grantaire snickered, and quickly raised a hand to his mouth to try to stifle it. “And I promise you, I am not judging.”

Enjolras’s scowl deepened. “And you promised not to laugh,” he sniffed.

“Now that was a promise I never actually made,” Grantaire said, and when Enjolras just glared at him, he snorted a laugh. “I’m sorry, I’m trying, I swear, but—”

“But I look like a neo-Nazi,” Enjolras finished miserably.

“God, you really, _really_ do,” Grantaire told him before dissolving into full-on, gut-busting laughter, and Enjolras just sighed, watching Grantaire double-over, a baleful expression on his face as he watched Grantaire wheeze with laughter. “I’m sorry,” Grantaire managed again, wiping tears from his eyes when he finally straightened. “I just…when Combeferre said you had locked yourself in the bathroom, this was literally the last thing I expected.”

“Do you have it all out of your system?” Enjolras snapped. “Because I don’t exactly find this amusing. Especially since we need to figure out someway to fix…” He trailed off, waving vaguely at his head. “You know, this.”

That set Grantaire off again, and Enjolras sighed, even as a small smile threatened to appear as he watched Grantaire laugh. “Grantaire,” he said warningly, and when Grantaire couldn’t seem to stop laughing this time, Enjolras huffed a sigh and disappeared back into the bathroom, closing the door after him with perhaps more force than was entirely necessary.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire hiccuped, leaning against the wall as he held his side.

“No, you’re not,” Enjolras called back.

“I love you.”

“You know, some days I really, really doubt that.”

Grantaire snorted once more before composing himself. “I’m gonna call Feuilly,” he said, pulling out his cellphone. “He used to work in a barbershop, remember? If there’s anyone who can fix this, it’s him. And you know he won’t mock you.”

“That’s because unlike certain people, Feuilly actually cares about me,” Enjolras snipes.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “And you love him more than me, I know, I made my peace with that long ago.” He held his phone up to his ear, waiting patiently for Feuilly to pick up. “Hey, man, you remember how you used to work in a barbershop? Well, I’ve got a member of the SS here in need of a haircut—”

Enjolras threw something that sounded suspiciously like his shoe at the bathroom door and Grantaire grinned. “Just get over to Enjolras’s, I’ll explain when you get here.” He hung up and rapped on the door. “You doing ok in there?”

“I hate you.”

Grantaire just laughed. “Look, Feuilly will be here shortly, he’ll fix the whole Richard Spencer look you’ve got going on, and then we never need to talk about this again.”

Enjolras was silent for a moment. “I’d ask you to promise,” he said, his tone sulky, “but I don’t know if I trust you now.”

Grantaire sighed. “Enjolras,” he said patiently, “there is a difference between not judging you for accidentally getting a Hitler Youth haircut and not finding it funny as fuck.”

“I know,” Enjolras sighed grudgingly, and there was a dull _thunk_ as if he had hit his head lightly against the bathroom door. “I’m sorry. I love you.”

“And I love you enough to not take any pictures,” Grantaire said solemnly, grinning when he finally heard Enjolras laugh from the other side of the door.


	5. 'I Love You' said Loudly so Everyone can Hear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU. Semi-established. Fluff.

The music was pounding so loudly that Enjolras swore his heartbeat had shifted to match the rhythm, and he frowned slightly, taking a sip from the fruity pink concoction Courfeyrac had foisted upon him with a wink and a promise that he’d never taste the alcohol in it. **  
**

“You gonna just stand here all night?” Bahorel called over the music, a mesh tank top stretched over his chest.

“Why?” Enjolras asked, deadpan. “You asking me to dance?”

Bahorel grinned and purposefully looked Enjolras up and down with a slow, lingering gaze. “If I thought I could get away with it without Grantaire murdering me, you bet your sweet ass I would.”

Enjolras laughed and shook his head, unsurprised when Courfeyrac popped up at his elbow, glitter smeared across his cheeks. “C’mon, Enjy, I gave you that drink to get you to loosen up, not stand here scowling,” Courfeyrac said, fluttering his eyelashes.

“Trying to liquor me up?” Enjolras asked mildly.

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “Yeah, make sure to have Grantaire write me a thank you note.”

He kissed Enjolras’s cheek before disappearing back into the crowd, and Enjolras just shook his head, taking another sip of his drink. “If you weren’t planning on dancing,” Combeferre started, and Enjolras sighed heavily.

“Not you, too.”

Combeferre just arched a bemused eyebrow at him. “If you weren’t planning on dancing, why come to the club?” he asked calmly. “Not that I begrudge you taking an evening off, but…”

He trailed off and Enjolras sighed again. “Because,” he said, “I promised to make an effort.”

Combeferre followed Enjolras’s gaze across the club to where Grantaire was leaning against the bar, chatting animatedly with the bartender as he waited for his drink. “Hell of a way to make an effort,” Combeferre chuckled, taking a swig of beer. “But I can’t say I’m surprised.”

He looked like he wanted to say something more, but Courfeyrac reappeared and wordlessly grabbed Combeferre’s hand, tugging him out to the dance floor. Enjolras shook his head and took a gulp of his drink, watching Grantaire head from the bar back to where Joly and Bossuet were waiting for him.

Enjolras’s mind was made up.

He drained his drink and moved to intercept Grantaire, whose eyes lit up when he saw him. “Dance with me,” Enjolras called without preamble over the music.

Grantaire grinned, tossed his drink back in a single gulp, and grabbed Enjolras’s hand.

Together they made their way out onto the dancefloor, and Enjolras paused, waiting for Grantaire’s lead. He knew Grantaire was an excellent dancer, far better than he could even pretend to be, but Grantaire just seemed content to wrap his arms around Enjolras neck and writhe against him in a way that definitely wasn’t going to cause a problem very quickly.

“Thank you,” Grantaire said suddenly, and Enjolras looked down at him, amused.

“For what?”

“Making an effort,” Grantaire said with a grin, and he leaned in to kiss him, resting a hand lightly on his chest.

He said something else that Enjolras couldn’t quite catch over the music. “What?” Enjolras called.

“I said, I love you!” Grantaire shouted, at the exact moment the music cut out, and practically the entire club turned to stare at them. Enjolras blushed as titters and giggles broke out, but Grantaire didn’t so much as flinch, just staring up at Enjolras, his eyebrows raised. “Well?” he said after a moment. “Got anything to say to me?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I love you, too,” he sighed, and whoops and applause broke out.

Both of them chose to ignore the fact that the loudest applause appeared to be coming from the corner where Les Amis were watching them. The music started again and Grantaire grinned at Enjolras. “Did you mean it?” he asked.

Enjolras shrugged. “I’m making an effort,” he said. “I’m here. What more proof do you need?”

“I don’t,” Grantaire said, his grin widening. “I just want to hear you say it again.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes but nonetheless leaned in, his mouth ghosting against Grantaire’s ear as he told him, loud enough for Grantaire to hear over the music but low enough that no one else could hear, “I love you, too.”

Grantaire didn’t say anything, just leaned in and kissed him. Enjolras thought of what Combeferre had said and smiled against Grantaire’s lips.

Hell of a way to make an effort.

And totally worth it.


	6. 'I Love You' said with a Shuddering Gasp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon-era because why not. Friends with benefits. Somewhat angsty. Mildly **NSFW**.

The candle spluttering on the washstand cast quivering shadows against the walls, matched by the shadows moving in a rhythmic motion. The only sound in the small bedchamber — save for the squeak the bed posts made against the wooden floorboards — were the quiet gasps and grunts that spoke of the intimate activity taking place within the four walls. **  
**

Enjolras’s head was thrown back, his eyes half-closed and his lips half-parted with what could only be described as ecstasy. One pale hand was splayed across the darker expanse of skin beneath him to keep himself mostly upright.

Dark hands gripped Enjolras’s hips, their touch surprisingly gentle, almost reverent, despite their unrelenting hold, the intensity in those fingertips pressed into Enjolras’s flesh only matched by hazel eyes cast almost black in the dim light, eyes that hungrily watched Enjolras’s every move.

Eyes that tightened with pleasure as Enjolras let out a low moan, his eyes finally closing, his hips stuttering with his release. Only then did Grantaire close his own eyes, his head tipping back against the pillow, the breath catching in his throat as he sought his own release.

“Enjolras—” he gasped, and then, with a shudder that moved through both men, he choked out, seemingly against his own will, “I love you.”

Enjolras said nothing, just bending to press a kiss to Grantaire’s lips.

For a long moment, both men stayed in that position before Enjolras sighed and slid bonelessly off of Grantaire to collapse next to him, his chest still heaving. He felt Grantaire roll over to kiss his bare shoulder, the kiss so light that Enjolras almost missed it, before Grantaire sat up.

“You need not leave on my behest,” Enjolras murmured sleepily, watching through hooded eyes as Grantaire bent to find his trousers from where he had left them on the floor.

Grantaire tossed a distracted smile over his shoulder. “It is well known that a mortal should not tarry in the realm of the fae,” he said, less of an answer than a deflection, and Enjolras rolled his eyes, propping himself up on his elbow.

“Then shall we at least discuss that which you let slip before you depart?”

Grantaire’s brow furrowed. “Let slip?” he repeated, sounding confused, and Enjolras frowned, having expected more of Grantaire’s typical rambling deflection than a denial.

So he pitched his voice low, not quite meeting Grantaire’s eyes as he traced a finger over the coverlet. “Then you did not mean it.”

He didn’t inflect it as a question, and he couldn’t miss the muscle that tightened in Grantaire’s jaw for just a moment, thrown in stark relief by the flickering light from the candle. “I know not of what you speak,” Grantaire said stiffly, fumbling slightly with the buttons of his shirt.

“Fine,” Enjolras said coolly. “Then I suppose I shall see you later.”

He lay back against the pillow, but Grantaire did not stand to leave as he expected. Instead, his shoulders tensed slightly, and he avoided Enjolras’s gaze as he said, so quietly that almost Enjolras missed the words, “What is there to discuss when the sentiment is not shared?”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras whispered, but he knew not what he thought to say after that.

“One should not seek to ruin a good thing, after all,” Grantaire added, still more to himself than to Enjolras, though finally he met Enjolras’s eyes, a small, almost sad smile crossing his face. “And this, here — these few hours we are able to spend in this bedchamber, the Cause naught but a distant concern, if only for a moment — this is a good thing if ever I’ve had one.”

“It is a good thing,” Enjolras confirmed softly.

Grantaire’s smile softened, and for a moment, his hand twitched, as if he intended to reach out to Enjolras, though his hand did not move form his lap. “And as much as it is me, and a good thing, I’ve known too that it is too good to last.” Enjolras opened his mouth to protest, but Grantaire just shook his head. “I have made my peace with it,” he told Enjolras, and indeed there was a contentment in Grantaire’s voice that rarely, if ever, Enjolras heard. “But that means not that I am ready to see it end.”

Enjolras was silent for a long moment, searching for the right thing to say. “Then you did mean it,” he said finally.

“Whether meant or not, I think we can both agree that it is better to pretend it was not said.”

Grantaire spoke the words plainly but still Enjolras felt it like a pain in his chest, and he shook his head slowly. “If we had more time—” he started contemplatively, and it was Grantaire’s turn to shake his head.

“Yet time is the one thing we have not.”

Enjolras nodded.

He understood.

And there were no words he could offer Grantaire. None, at least, that either of them would fully believe.

Grantaire managed a small but genuine smile and leaned over to kiss Enjolras lightly on the forehead. “But, oh, shall I cherish what time we have left,” he murmured before standing, smoothing his wrinkled shirt. “Until we next meet.”

Enjolras nodded once more and watched as Grantaire left, slipping from Enjolras’s bedchamber as he had done so many times before. But something about this time was different, as if they were saying good-bye.

When Grantaire was gone, Enjolras lay back against the bed, staring up at the ceiling and the dancing shadows cast by the flickering candle. “I love you, too,” he whispered, though there was no one left to hear him.

And no one, not even himself, who would quite believe him.


	7. 'I Love You' said on a Post-It Note

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU by necessity. Established. Fluff.

“I can’t take it anymore.”

Enjolras’s voice was bleak and Combeferre arched an eyebrow as he glanced up from his textbook. Enjolras was sitting across from him at the Musain, head in hands, gripping his hair. “Problem?” Combeferre asked mildly.

Enjolras shook his head slowly. “It’s Grantaire,” he sighed.

“Color me shocked,” Combeferre said under his breath, so low that Enjolras almost couldn’t hear him. He sighed as well and closed his textbook. “Lay it on me. What latest crime against your fragile living arrangement has Grantaire committed now?”

Grantaire and Enjolras had started living together almost on accident, after graduation and expired leases had left both scrambling for an apartment. Everyone thought they were nuts to think they could live together — the two could barely stand to be in the same room on the best day, and Courfeyrac, as the unofficial arbiter of all bets amongst Les Amis, set the over/under on how long they’d last at two weeks.

But to everyone’s surprise, Enjolras and Grantaire had somehow scratched out a tentative truce and managed to survive as roommates. To absolutely no one’s surprise, roommates had turned into lovers, though with the same tentative truce keeping their living arrangement civil.

Thus far, anyway, though as Combeferre eyed Enjolras, he couldn’t help but think that the truce might be up.

“It’s the post-it notes,” Enjolras said, and Combeferre blinked.

“The—”

“Post-its,” Enjolras groaned, putting his head down on the table with a dull thump. “He leaves them fucking everywhere, these passive-aggressive little reminders and notes as if we’ve somehow lost the ability to use our goddamn words.”

Combeferre bit back a laugh. “What kind of reminders?” he asked.

Enjolras waved a dismissive hand. “Stupid shit, like ‘dinner’s ready’ and ‘empty the dishwasher’. And it’s not like he just leaves them when he’s on his way out — though again, he could just use his goddamn words if that were the case — but when I’m in the next goddamn room.”

He looked so insulted that Combeferre couldn’t quite stop his laugh that time. “Is it when you’re asleep?” he asked, his tone turning teasing. “Does he leave you little notes on your pillow?”

Enjolras glared at him. “I don’t see why you find this funny,” he said through gritted teeth. “And no, it’s not when I’m asleep — or at least, not just when I’m asleep. Half the time it’s when I’m working!”

Combeferre could see where this was going and he sighed, flipping his textbook open again. “Enjolras, what’s the number one thing that’s most important to you?” he asked with as much patience as he could muster.

Enjolras blinked. “I don’t—” he started, but Combeferre cut him off.

“Your work,” he said. “The Cause.”

“So?” Enjolras asked.

Combeferre gave him a look. “So Grantaire is trying not to interrupt your work,” he said, losing what little patience he had. “He’s been tip-toeing around and making you dinner and leaving you little post-its because he doesn’t want to disturb you. Because he knows you, and he knows that you hate getting distracted.” He paused, his voice softening. “He’s trying to be considerate — to show you he cares.”

“Emphasis on trying,” Enjolras grumbled, but something had shifted in his expression.

Combeferre sighed and shrugged, deeming the situation out of his hands. “I’m just saying, you could offer him the same courtesy.”

He went back to his book and completely missed the contemplative look that crossed Enjolras’s face.

* * *

“Hey,” Grantaire said, glancing up from where he was lounging on the couch, scrolling through his phone. “How was your meeting with Combeferre?”

Enjolras didn’t say anything, just crossed to the desk under the window and dug in the top drawer. Grantaire tracked him with his eyes, his eyebrows raised. “O…k…” he said slowly.

Enjolras bent over the desk and scribbled something before turning around and walking over to Grantaire, handing him the post-it note in his hand. Grantaire glanced down at it and blinked. “What’s this?” he asked, somewhat amused.

“An apology,” Enjolras told him. “And the truth. I know that you leave me post-its because you don’t want to disturb me, and I’m sorry that I ever made you feel like you were disturbing me.”

Grantaire’s expression softened. “That would be somewhat more believable if, you know, you didn’t tell me that I’m disturbing you like three times a day.”

“Still,” Enjolras said stubbornly.

“Well in that case, there’s nothing to forgive,” Grantaire told him, reaching out and pulling Enjolras into his lap. “Though I hope you realize this means I’m going to be disturbing you twice as much as usual.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras said with a laugh, kissing Grantaire. “I probably should’ve expected as much.”

As Grantaire kissed him back, the post-it note in his hand fluttered to the ground, the scrawled words ‘I love you’ standing out starkly against the bright yellow.


	8. Poetry Smash Interlude: 'I Love You' said as we lay together on the fresh spring grass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the title says, this is Bahorel/Jehan. Canon era. Established. Short and sweet.

“My dear fellow,” Prouvaire said with an arched eyebrow as he took in Bahorel’s supine position against the green grass in the Jardin des Plantes, the early afternoon sunlight dappling the ground, “were you Grantaire I would assume you had been too early in your cups, and were you Bossuet, an accident I would presume had felled you here.” **  
**

“And yet I am neither,” Bahorel told him with the somewhat impish smile he seemed to reserve solely for Jehan. “And thus you have not yet sussed out what my purpose here may be.” He patted the patch of grass next to him. “Come, join me.”

Prouvaire hesitated. “For what purpose?”

Bahorel gave him a somewhat amused look. “Often enough you drag me from my bed to lie similarly and view the night sky, and yet you find reason to question me?” he said, mostly rhetorically. “My dear man, the least you could do is afford me the luxury of joining me thus in the daytime.”

Seemingly convinced by Bahorel’s argument, Prouvaire lay down next to him, their arms just brushing. “Are you studying the clouds?” he asked, scanning the fluffy white clouds that dotted the sky. “Oft I find inspiration in their shapes and movements.”

Bahorel shook his head, just slightly. “No, it is not the clouds that have drawn me hence.”

“Watching the birds, then?” Prouvaire guessed. “As they swoop and play and laugh?”

“Not the birds either,” Bahorel said comfortably.

Jehan tilted his head to look at Bahorel. “What then?” he asked. “What do you do, lying thus?”

Bahorel thought about it for a moment. “Nothing,” he pronounced finally.

Prouvaire looked back up at the sky, his expression contemplative. “Nothing,” he repeated, rolling the word around in his mouth as if he was unfamiliar with its shape. “What a curious notion. Can one truly do nothing?”

“If one tries hard enough,” Bahorel assured him. “And with the right company.”

Jehan smiled a little at that, glancing again at Bahorel. “And am I the right company?” he asked teasingly.

In response, Bahorel wove their fingers together without looking away from the bright expanse of blue that stretched above them. Jehan’s smile softened and he shifted to rest his head lightly against Bahorel’s shoulder. After a long moment, he sighed. “I think I could get used to doing nothing,” he told Bahorel. “At least, so long as I am doing nothing with you.” He closed his eyes, feeling the sun warm the skin of his face, certain to bring his freckles out earlier this spring than usual. “I love you.”

He said it almost off-handedly and for one moment, it appeared as if Bahorel had not heard it. But then Bahorel lifted their clasped hands to press a kiss to Prouvaire’s knuckles.

And together they lay, having discovered as so many lovers do, the simple bliss found in spending an afternoon doing nothing with the best of company.


End file.
